On the Use of Mirrors in the Game of Chess
by NorthernStar
Summary: For 15 years, Harrison Wells was the Grand Master of Barry's destiny. It was almost a chess game, moves and counter moves, the pieces in play, the gains and the sacrifices. Five times Harrison Wells didn't talk to Barry Allen (and the one time he did) FINALLY complete (sorry about the 14 month wait)
1. First Mirror: Vacating Sacrifice

**On the Use of Mirrors**  
 **(In the Game of Chess)**

 _"All these years, all these moves, counter moves, the watching and the waiting…"_

 **Vacating Sacrifice**  
 _A sacrifice made to clear a square for a different piece of the same colour_

Vulgar curiosity brought him here and it sat ill in Harrison's heart. It was not the fine precision tool of science that he was used to instead this was base and blunt, gasping for attention that wouldn't be satisfied by merely objectively observing via Gideon's cameras.

The Family Courts were attached to the main Central City courthouse, but had their own entrance. The corridors and rooms were smaller, the ceilings not so high and imposing and one small corner had been carpeted and held a child sized table and chairs and a box of brightly coloured and well-worn toys. No doubt the adults responsible had congratulated themselves on making this place less frightening for its young visitors, as if such small sops could dull the horror of this place.

Futures were decided here and the children were merely pawns in someone else's chess game, slaved to the will of others. The panic they must feel, to stand here and know their own helplessness as strangers debated their fate…

Harrison smiled, belly warmed by the thought of every shred of fear and vulnerability that Barry must be feeling.

The entrance door opened and there was Joe West, dressed in a suit and tie, holding the door for his daughter. Iris wore a yellow skirt and cardigan with a flowered blouse and looked around the courthouse nervously as if expecting someone to jump out at her. And behind her came Barry Allen.

Slowly, Harrison's smile fell away.

The boy looked pale and frightened, skin sallow and his eyes drawn and shadowed. Gideon had shown him many nights the boy didn't sleep for nightmares, many days when he pushed Joe's food away or forced down tiny bites. It was everything Thawne had hoped for when he slid the knife through Nora's heart and yet he could enjoy it.

Now he had to hope the damage could be healed, had to work to repair any damage because that boy – that hateful, sanctimonious, vile boy – _had_ to become what he was always meant to be: The Flash.

Thawne knew fate was tricky. Apparently it had a fine sense of irony too.

"We'll all go out for Big Belly Burger when this is done," Joe was saying, "or even to that new restaurant by the waterfront." He sounded upbeat, confident. "Put these fancy threads to their proper use." It wasn't fooling Wells for a second. The man was scared. He knew there was a very real possibility, with Henry Allen now convicted of murder, that he would lose the temporary custody of Barry that he had been granted and the boy would be placed somewhere within the Central City care system to grow up alone and lost.

It clearly wasn't fooling Barry or Iris either because the girl took her father's hand and offered him a smile and Barry hunched in on himself, clearly holding back the protest that he might not be going anywhere with the West's ever again.

A woman approached the family. "Mr West?" She held out her hand. "I'm Carol Marks, your new family liaison."

Joe frowned, shaking her hand. "Where's Diane?"

"A family emergency has called her away but I have completely familiarised myself with this case and I can assure you that a change in your court appointed liaison will in no way affect your case."

On the contrary, Wells was banking on it very much affecting the case. Diane Dumont was strongly biased towards keeping children within their own ethnic background and many of her reports throughout Henry Allen's trial on the wellbeing of Barry had included concern of his living in a black family. A laudable, if bigoted, opinion perhaps, if presented to the right ears with the right words, (but history told that the succession of nice white families she wanted had trampled on Barry's aspirations and he had ended up working as a teller in a bank.) Thawne had felt a special satisfaction when he had shred apart her heart and dropped her body in the ocean.

"And Barry and I have already met," Carol was continuing, and she cast a smile in Barry's direction, "haven't we, Barry?"

Marks had escorted Barry to hospital the night his mother was murdered and sat with him while a doctor examined him to ensure he wasn't injured or that his fantastical tale of a man in lightening wasn't due to concussion or ingested drugs.

Barry didn't answer. He probably didn't remember. But Wells did (and could have Gideon replay the scenes to better enjoy if he so wished) and he had bargained on Marks more liberal views to make this go the right way.

The right way…

…Which was also the wrong way.

Right because he needed to create the Flash, wrong because he despised the hero with every fibre of his being and the thought of his being shuttled, unwanted and uncared for, from foster family to foster family would have been such exquisite revenge and _oh_ , how it pained him not only to know that Barry would _not_ suffer it but that _he_ was the very person preventing it.

Fate was mocking him.

But he _would_ have the last laugh.

"Miss Marks, can I have a word in private?" Joe asked.

"Yes, of course," she replied, "and please, it's Carol."

Harrison watched them walk a little way down the corridor, watched Barry's eyes follow them. His lips twisted into something like a smile. Poor little pawn…

Wells made his way to the vending machine and stood in front of it as if deciding on his snack. He was close enough to overhear Joe and Carol.

"…at such a late stage and I'm concerned on the impact it will have on Barry."

"It's by no means uncommon for liaison's to be swapped out and granted it's not usually in the same week as the custody hearing, but believe me when I tell you: I know this case."

"I don't doubt you know the facts and I don't doubt you know every word in those files, inside and out. I know the law, I know how the law works and I respect every single person here, because I know how hard the job you do is but you don't know Barry – you _can't_ know Barry – not from words on a page and that kid has been through so much already, he deserves to be represented by someone who knows what's best for him."

"Detective…"

"Joe."

"Joe, the family court system exists to represent what's best for children like Barry and I won't patronise you by pointing out that _objectivity_ is exactly what is needed. I think you already know that." Her voice softened. "I know you're afraid of losing Barry, but his placement with you was always intended to be temporary."

"It was never temporary to me."

"I know."

"Custody hearing," a loud voice called out, "minor child, case J.A. Eleven, fifty two."  
Wells looked round to see Joe square his shoulders, walk over to his children, touch each of their cheeks with a big reassuring smile on his face before heading into the hearing room.

The door closed behind the court officials and Joe, leaving only the children, the liaison and Wells in the hall. Barry was staring at the door behind which he thought his entire future was being decided and never knowing that the man currently choosing a Snickers bar just fifteen feet away already held more power over his life than any court in the land and that grip would only grow stronger with every passing year. Thawne felt almost giddy with the triumph.

After a long moment, Barry turned away and sat on one of the chairs lining the corridor. Iris went to sit with him and they talked softly together. Wells couldn't hear their words and cared not to. Gideon was recording the events of the hearing and he would no doubt enjoy them later with a glass of single malt and perhaps some music. History had assured him of the outcome. And the family that had walked in these doors together would leave together. The future was back as he had left it that bitterly cold day in April.

All he needed to do was enjoy the suffering of a small and frail boy…

The small and frail boy getting up from his chair and walking towards him….

Barry Allen stopped before the vending machine and pulled out the change from his pocket. He studied the chocolate bars and then at the few coins in his hand. Then he looked up at Wells.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, "do you have change for a dollar?"

Wells stared at him. He had never seen the boy up close before, always either at a distance or through the filter of Gideon's cameras. There were red blotches around his eyes – he'd clearly been crying on the journey here – and the green of his eyes stood out in stark contrast. Wells had planned every detail, taken every caution and this – Barry speaking to him – had never featured in any of the scenarios.

"Barry?" Carol called out. "You can get chocolate later. You need to be ready to go in, OK? They'll call us soon."

"OK." The boy replied and his head lowered, eyes leaving Wells' face and yet not before he saw the utter despair that twisted Barry's features at being denied such a small distraction. He walked back to the chair and Wells knew it was unwise to let his eyes follow him but he could not drag them away.

It seemed his taste for vengeance had soured. And he had no more time for vulgarity.

Harrison Wells walked firmly towards the exit.

He did not look back.


	2. Second Mirror: Doubled Pawns

_Warning: Racism and racial taunts appear in this chapter._

* * *

 _"…the sacrifices, the gains…it is the grandest game of chess I have ever played and yet…"_

 **Second Mirror:**  
 **Doubled Pawns**

 _Two pawns of the same colour on the same file and so are unable to defend each other_

The grass was wet, water droplets settling on the ground from the misty, still air. It was the kind of weather that leached into bones quickly and stole the body's warmth. Harrison had layered up a couple of sweaters and he was still cold.

He cast his eyes along the lines of parents standing at the pitch edge waving encouragement at their poorly dressed offspring chasing a ball around the centre of playing field. They did not seem to notice the chill.

"Run, Barry!" Joe West was one of the more enthusiastic parents. "Run!"

Overcompensating, Wells decided, because it was becoming more apparent, day by day, that Barry was going to grow up at least twice as smart as Joe could ever hope to be and the detective felt the depth of that gap keenly. But here, on the soccer field, he could support Barry on equal footing.

Barry, for the most part, was a decent enough player. He certainly wasn't the fastest – fate did love irony – nor was he the most talented, but he worked well with his team and by half time, they had scored and the other team had not.

Harrison retreated during the break in play. It would be too obvious that he was not one of the team's family members and while it may not be unusual for strangers to stop and watch, he could not take the risk that, on such a bitterly cold day, for a seemingly unimportant friendly between two schools, his behaviour might draw attention. It was entirely too early to gain Joe's interest in him.

From a distance, he watched Joe talking to Barry and then taking a phone call. It was a quick conversation and Barry was clearly doing his best to not look disappointed as Joe spoke to him on hanging up.

Harrison knew this little exchange so well now. The _that-was-work-I-have-to-go_ conversation that had stolen hours away from Christmas and birthday's and would probably go on to steal even more.

Joe gave Barry's shoulder a quick squeeze before hurrying away.

One of Barry's team – David Keens, Wells knew from his research into everyone Barry had even minimal contact with – watched Joe leave and then stride to Barry's side.

"Negro Daddy cut out, Allen?" Keens didn't bother to keep his voice low. "Probably couldn't stomach watching any more of your pathetic flailing."

In the small cadre of Barry's bullies, attracted by the easy target that was _your-daddy-killed-your-mommy_ , David Keens was at least interesting.

"Did you suck Negro Coach's dick to get on this team?" He spat. "Is that why Negro Daddy walked out, because he knows how much you love Negro dick?"

Keens' own father had beaten his mother within an inch of her life on many occasions before walking out. Did he hate Barry for immediately gaining another, better father? Did he hate him for defending Henry when he could not bring himself to defend his own father? Or, and this was Harrison's favourite theory, did he just hate Barry for the things he really hated about himself: being the son of brutal man?

"Don't disrespect coach." Barry snapped and began walking away. Keens followed him, and continued to hurl insults but the slurs ceased once they were within earshot of the adults.

Play started up again and Wells moved back to the pitch line. The other team, Henley Junior Boys, were attacking hard and Harrison decided he was, in some small way, enjoying it, especially the notable viciousness of the Henley's defender. He knocked Barry down twice, the second time resulting in the skin being scraped off of Barry's knees and a sharp warning from the referee.

Barry's penalty kick resulted in a goal and mass praise by his team, save David, who trailed behind the huddle of celebrating children.

From then on, David Keens played more wildly, yelled at his team more loudly, desperate for a chance with the ball.

Henley did not take well to being two goals behind and stepped up their attack. Harrison had to credit the captain of their team. The kid clearly had a bright future ahead of him, if not in soccer then the army; somewhere where channelled aggression was a _good_ thing.

It was less than ten minutes later when David, clearly desperate to score, tackled Henley's striker. The pair crashed into Barry and they all hit the ground in one tangled heap. There was a blood curdling cry of pain and Harrison was running onto the pitch even before he knew what he was doing.

The Henley striker was pulling himself to his feet when Wells got there. Barry sat up, blood trickling from his lip and dripping far more dramatically from his nose, but rather than deal with his own injuries, he immediately reached for David, concern clear on his face. The boy was clutching his left arm and wailing up a storm.

Wells scanned Barry with his eyes, searching for damage. The boy could not suffer damage. Not yet.

Barry looked up Harrison, clearly uncomfortable with the intensity of his attention. "Are you David's dad?" He asked him. Clearly the only explanation the boy could think of.

"Course he's not my fucking dad, you retard!" David snapped before Wells could form any reply.

A black man pushed through the ring of children that had gathered around the scene and dropped to David's side. "Alright, lad, alright," he murmured, giving David only a cursory check, "you'll be fine a few minutes."

This Harrison doubted. David's arm was curved.

The coach then took Barry's chin, surveyed the split lip and bloody nose before handing him a towel to hold against his face.

"I think David needs to go to the emergency room, coach." Barry said, voice muffled through the fabric.

There was a chorus of agreement from the team. The coach then returned his attention to David and this time frowned at the arm that David was clutching tightly to him.

"Damn." Coach said, "OK. Keens, I don't see your mom."

"David came on the bus, coach." One of the team said.

"He always does," Barry said, "to games and to practice." Because of course he would know that, of course he would _care_ and take notice.

David grit his teeth. "Mom hates soccer."

"Damn." Coach stood up. "Looks like it's just you and me then."

"I'll go with you." Barry said. "I can let Joe know where I am from the hospital."

"I don't need Allen's help!" David protested, but it came out whinny and pained.

"Someone's gotta watch ya while I drive." The coach replied, "just had my car valeted and I won't take kindly to you puking up in it."

The rest of the team 'eww'-ed and Harrison guessed David would have ranted against them if he hadn't been in a lot of pain.

"You take his right side, Allen." Coach said. "And try not to bleed on my upholstery."

Wells watched them get David to his feet and guide him to the coach's car, with concerned and gossiping parents following in their wake. Barry offering his shoulder for support even as David cursed him and pushed against him, concern clearly written on his face.

There it was; that compassion for others, that desire to help no matter what the personal cost, that determination to see the goodness of others, despite evidence to the contrary.

Wells smiled to himself.

The innate…light…inside the boy was still strong even against all the darkness thrown at him.

Barry Allen.

The Flash.

Wells was counting on it.

It was going to get him home.


	3. Third Mirror: Bad Bishop

_"…I question now, the side I play – black? White? – or am I merely just a piece on the board…"_

 **Third Mirror:**  
 **Bad Bishop**  
 _A bishop whose movement is restricted by the player's own pawns_

It was the source of some amusement when Wells had opened the letter. An invitation to the Police Families Benevolent Fund's annual gala. This year the fancy dress theme was European literature.

He had been working on raising his profile, both of himself as scientist and that of STAR labs, over the last couple of years. His plans for the particle accelerator had to be skilful introduced to the right people. Alliances had to be struck, egos had to stroked, talents nurtured. It never occurred to him that this might involve something that would cross his path with Barry and the Wests.

His plus one was Cynthia Stone, one of STAR labs less interesting scientists and he chose her because she was in all likelihood not at all interested in Wells as a person and yet too timid to make up a viable excuse for turning down her boss's request for her company. She was gamely dressed in the bikini that Ursula Andress had made famous in _Dr No_. Wells himself had simply worn a typical James Bond tux with an ID badge clipped to him declaring his "license to kill."

The ball was being held in the Central Royale and was already thrumming with guests when Wells arrived. He had a set agenda that he intended to get through as soon as possible so he could leave: make his generous donation directly to the police chief, invite the major and her husband to a private tour of STAR labs, charm the cities two leading philanthropists into considering supporting the sciences, meet Rachel and Osgood Rathaway and take the first steps into insinuating his way into the life of their son Hartley, whose work on applied theory was just _brilliant_ and, if he was honest, get a closer look at how Barry was turning out.

And finally, there was the small matter of Annabelle Lane…

"It's cold in here." Cynthia complained once they had made their way into the main hall.

"Your costume choice," he replied, looking up and down at the skimpy attrite. "Not mine."

"Well I thought you'd make more of an effort."

"Dressing up in costumes… " He smiled to himself. "That really isn't me."

Her reply faded into the background as Wells found his eyes drawn to the figures entering the hall. The Wests were dressed in bright blue Musketeers tabards over shirts and breeches and each wore a ridiculous feathered hat. Joe was nodding and laughing at his colleagues, Iris was smiling nervously and Barry…

It had been several months since Wells had viewed Gideon's camera's – the life of a fourteen year old boy was terribly dull – but that had clearly been before a growth spurt because he was now a least a foot taller, up to Joe's shoulder, and whippet thin, all long bones and sharp joints, as if he'd been stretched. But once that initial shock wore off, that wasn't what drew his interest. Barry looked…sad.

"Someone you know?" Cynthia asked.

"No." He turned his attention back to her and made a mental note to be more cautious in future. It wouldn't do to reveal his interest in Barry in a room full of Central City's finest. "Just admiring some costumes. Shall we get some champagne?"

8

Thawne remembered that, from so long ago, in a future so far ahead, how expressive The Flash's face could be, even behind a mask. A window to his feelings, his thoughts…such weakness that Thawne still loathed.

From his position beside the buffet table, Wells could see the boy and his family, could with the use of a sonic amplifier pushed into his ear hear what being said.

"…of my favourite books," the mayor was saying to Joe, "and I was lucky enough to first read it when I was studying in Paris." She looked at Joe's costume.

"You must be Porthos."

"Because he's the biggest!" Iris chimed in, clearly overexcited to be at the party.

Joe laughed, "and he's my favourite character. Just…don't tell anyone I said that."

"Of course not, detective," she smiled.

"And you know, raising two kids alone, sometimes it really does feel like we're the Three Musketeers."

She placed a hand on Joe's shoulder, "that's why causes like this are a top priority in this city; to support families facing unimaginable loss."

Iris bounced on her toes, "I'm Aramis!" She giggled. "Aramis is my favourite!"

The woman smiled indulgently, "and very fine you look too, my dear!" Then she looked at Barry. "And that means you must be my favourite character, Barry. Athos."

Barry's look was sharp. "I'm D'Artagnan." The words skirted close to being rudely spoken.

Wells frowned. Interesting.

"Oh…" the mayor forced a smile, "your favourite?"

"No."

"Barry…" Joe's voice was low.

Barry took off his hat and fixed his foster father with clear frustration, "I am _not_ Athos!" And he dropped the hat at their feet and walked away.

Wells allowed himself a smile. Teenage rebellion. Even the saintly Barry Allen was not immune.

"Barry!" Joe called after him.

But the boy didn't stop.

8

The gardens were beautifully lit with coloured lights, skilfully creating some romantic nooks and intimate spaces by casting shadows on the hedges and trees.  
Following Barry outside was probably unwise and yet Wells felt inexplicably drawn. He tried to dismiss the compulsion as a vulgar desire to see the boy suffer, but he knew that wasn't truly the reason.

The kid sat on one of the benches, frowning through what was probably an intense internal conversation, before burying his face in his hands.

And then Wells saw _her._

Annabelle Lane.

She was looking towards Barry with concern and caring, drawn to his obvious distress. So this was how she met and wormed her way into the West's family. Wells had often wondered. No doubt that same maternal warmth had… _would have_ spurned Joe into proposing to her, would have encouraged Barry into following his mother's path around the world, far away from Wells influence and Central City…

It would have made them…happy…

Annabelle started towards Barry, lips parting to ask something like, _are you OK?_

Wells' hand gripped her wrist, grasp firm but not hurting.

She made a soft noise, eyes alarmed, surprised, but not yet afraid.

"That is a path," he told her softly, "that you cannot go down." _I will not let you go down._

"Let go of me!" She snapped.

He met her eyes as he slowly withdrew his hand. "Too few people have the opportunity that you have right at this moment." He kept his voice very, very low.

"You should take it." She was nothing. She had died long ago. But he would not kill if he did not have to. "Walk away."

"Who are you?" She demanded.

"You do not want to know the answer to that."

Wells watched the play of emotions on her face – mostly annoyance, righteous anger, not a little disgust – until enough discomfort and dis-ease worked its way into fear that she made a tutting noise, called him a creep loudly and stalked away, heels clicking sharply on the floor.

Wells watched her leave and then turned back to see Barry looking at him. Perhaps he heard what Wells said to Annabelle or seen enough of her body language to know something terrible had happened.

He felt faintly amused. It was far more terrible that the boy would ever, ever imagine; a whole future, gone in nine small words.

But he was too young to follow the instinct to help that Wells knew was itching inside of him even in the face of whatever had driven him out here and away from his family.

Barry looked away, down at his feet.

Wells felt a sudden, faint urge to finish what Anabelle had begun and talk to Barry, draw out whatever was troubling him, not to better enjoy but to...what? In all these years he had never spoken to Barry, never wanted to and yet…

A few minutes passed and they only strengthened his motivation to _talk_ to the boy. But just as that would have finally moved his feet forward, Iris called out.

"Barry?" The girl ran over. She was clutching Barry's feathered hat against her chest. She looked anxious. "I was looking _everywhere_ for you!"

He didn't look up.

"Barry?" There was worry in her voice now.

The boy raised his head, smiled at her, a little forced at first, but gradually changing into something more genuine, which made her smile back, reassured.

"Dad's really mad." She said. "I thought you liked the Three Musketeers."

"I do, Iris, I just…" He looked at her. "You know I didn't want to do this. But Joe was just so set on it."

"Because it's us, Barry." She offered him a sweet, brace-toothed smile, "we're the inseparables."

"I just… " He bowed his head, hid his face. "Joe can't make me Athos."

"Then you're not. Be D'Artagnan instead, like you said."

"The costume is Athos. It's on the label."

"Since when did you, Barry Allen, care about labels?"

"When the label names a man who killed his wife."

Iris stared wordlessly at him.

"Iris." Joe's voice.

The children looked over as their father walked towards them. Wells too found his gaze pulled to the detective and he stepped back further into the shadows to avoid being seen.

"Iris, I want to speak to Barry for a minute."

The girl got up, clearly reluctant, and walked away as slowly as she could.

"Barry." Joe sat down on the bench. "I heard what you said. I'm sorry. I never thought…" He sighed. "You know I don't think you could ever be a man like that."

"But you think my dad is."

"Barry-"

"Everyone, even you," he shook his head against the tears lacing his words, "probably even Iris, thinks my dad murdered my mom."

"Bae-"

"And that makes it the past for you." Barry drew a shaky breath. "But it's not for me. The man who killed my mother is still out there."

"Barry, son, you have to stop this."

"I know you think what I saw was…" He trailed off and Joe tangled his fingers in Barry's hair and pulled his forehead to his lips. "You never even considered, did you, even for a moment, that what I was telling you was what really happened?" He looked away from Joe. "You've never thought I was telling the truth."

Joe shook his head, "I always believed you, Barry. Don't ever think that I didn't. But your truth, what you saw, was the creation of a scared little boy whose mind couldn't process what it was really seeing." His hand was still cupping Barry's head and he used it to make the boy look at him. "Sometimes, God help me, I'm glad that's what you remember. You and Iris…you both deserve good memories of your parents. But you have your whole life ahead of you and you need to make what happened to your mom your past and move on."

"I can't do that, Joe. I _won't_ do that."

Joe's hand moved to lie against Barry's cheek, where his thumb brushed for a moment before he pulled away. There was clearly more he wanted to say and yet it had all been said already. He sighed. "Well we can at least put tonight in the past." He said, getting up, "how about we go home, throw off these stupid costumes and order a pizza?"

A small, fragile smile grew on Barry's face and he got up. Together they walked to where Iris was waiting.

Wells watched them leave, the family that would forever be three, and felt strangely…less. He had no taste now, to go back to Cynthia and smile and charm at the influential benefactors and yet…

Home.

It was the only way home.


	4. Fourth Mirror: Gambit

_"…like your son. Barry Allen: my pawn, my rook, my knight…He still has many roles to play…"_

 **Fourth Mirror:**  
 **Gambit**  
 _The sacrifice, usually of a pawn, to gain an early advantage_

The county sectionals Science Fair was a tedium that Wells, as the state's foremost scientist, was obligated to attend despite having no time for such an insult to genuine science. Often too full of moneyed, influential and ambitious parents who had overseen every aspect of "their child's" science project and presided over by judges too stupid to know what true talent, true scientific curiosity looked like.

This year did at least have something of interest: Barry Allen had won both his high school science fair and then the regional to gain his place here. His project,

Determining Optimal Weather Conditions for Forensics, was decidedly undergraduate yet did show promise and Wells had witnessed, via Gideon's cameras, its entire inception and birth.

But he had…other…reasons for coming here.

Wells stopped at a project adjacent to Barry's table and made a show of reading the materials as he secretly observed the boy and his companions.

Becky Cooper was with Barry. They were laughing together which Joe and Becky's grandmother, Violet, tolerated with indulgent smiles. No doubt they thought the pair of fifteen year olds cute, that their interactions were sweet and young and largely innocent and never realising that six weeks ago their relationship had strayed far beyond the boundaries expected of them.

Wells knew, though, because he had watched them, curled together on the sofa in Joe's house, talking of their fathers. Becky's dad was half the country away, going through chemotherapy and Barry had listened and more importantly understood what it was to worry about an absent parent. The kisses were comfort at first, arms holding tightly to console but then they just…didn't stop.

"If you have any questions, sir," a bright voice intruded on his thoughts, "I'm sure our Lizzie can answer them. Lizzie, why don't you explain your project to Mr…" Her eyes lit on the name badge pinned to Wells' chest and all but bulged out, "oh _Doctor_ Wells! Lizzie, you must speak to Dr Wells! He runs STAR labs."

Wells stifled as much annoyance as he could and turned his attention to the small plump girl looking nervously up at him as if he, a complete and utter stranger, had the power to provide, or deny, her the parental approval that she needed. And glancing at the sharp eyed woman standing far too close to him, he guessed he did.

Lizzie did her best to explain work that she probably did the colouring in for and Wells did his best to look interested. It seemed an equable exchange for the use of a very good vantage point to wait until Becky was sufficiently isolated.

That opportunity came sooner than he expected.

Joe and Violet had been standing a little to one side, drinking vending machine coffee, and talking when their attention was drawn to a flying drone, zipping around and they moved to follow it. Barry was deeply in conversation with an official and Becky, clearly bored, had wandered a few tables down.

"Thank you, Lizzie, that was very…informative. I do like to keep my eye on talent. But if you will excuse me…"

Lizzie's mother made some simpering noises and gushed over the privilege to talking to him, words that mumbled away in the background as he focused on Becky.

She was sipping at her own coffee, moving aimlessly from table to table. This would, he decided, be far easier than he ever dreamed.

Stopping at her side, he waited a moment before asking, "are you one of the students?"

"No, I, um, I'm here because of my boyfriend," she replied, straightening up as if being addressed by a teacher and moving the cup down by her side. It was nicely out of sight. Perfect.

"He has a project?"

"Yeah, he has a _great_ project." She sounded genuine. "It's forensic science. You should see it."

"I'm sure I will." Wells watched the coffee cup dangle careless from her fingers. "And you've never considered entering yourself?" He carefully, discretely removed a tiny vial from his cufflink. "The world of science needs more women."

She blushed. "I'm… I guess you could say that I like science but it doesn't really like me. I mean, I get OK grades and everything, but science fairs…" she shrugged. "They're not for me."

Wells palmed the little vial, working the lid off with his thumb and as if fate was truly on his side today, something whizzed over his head. "That flying drone is really something, isn't it?" He said.

Predictably the girl looked up at the ceiling. Under the cover of shifting position to better view the plane, Wells tipped the vials contents into Becky's coffee.

"Yeah, it's amazing," she agreed, but clearly only out of politeness.

"Well, I should probably go check that out." Wells said. "It was nice meeting you."

"Yeah, you too." Becky said and took a swallow of coffee.

888

Wells watched Becky return to Barry's table and curl her arm possessively around his waist and smile smugly at the pretty girl he was explaining his project to, an entirely unsubtle declaration of Barry's unavailability. She continued to drink her coffee.

She'd feel the effects within 15 minutes and once that small window of time had passed; there was no going back, nothing to stop it. The girl was neither unkind nor stupid, just young and in love, and in truth, Wells bore her no ill will. And yet he held no regrets about his actions, no remorse.

Wells began a slow circuit of the hall, walking between the tables, dodging around the people, watching…waiting…feeling the minutes tick by. His eyes found Barry Allen on numerous occasions but did not linger long.

Barry Allen…in one glance talking to Joe, in other engaging the officials and judges… And finally, bending down to talk a young boy who was staring at his project and when he made the child laugh, something stabbed sharply in Wells' gut.

And then, as he drew up next to Barry, close enough that they could have a conversation if he wanted, he saw over the boy's narrow shoulder, Becky wincing and turn to grip the table edge for support.

It was done.

If Wells had expected to feel any remorse – and he did not, this course of action was completely justified – then seeing her, talking to her, would certainly have extinguished any doubts.

Barry's future would no longer be tied to this unsuitable partner and to the unfortunate offspring they'd carelessly and unknowingly created six weeks ago and he could focus on getting stronger, faster…

"Barry?" He heard Becky say. "I feel really strange."

Barry was immediately at her side, slipping his arms around her, and she leaned heavily on him as he told her, "let's go sit down."

She would begin bleeding soon and cramping shortly after as her body rejected the foetus that was in all likelihood dying at this very moment as its placental blood supply clotted and stopped. Becky would probably never know what was lost.

But Wells knew and as he turned away from the couple, he felt something that was strangely, vaguely…loss.


	5. Fifth Mirror: Castling (Part One)

_"…and play them he must, if I am to go home. I create what I had sworn to destroy…"_

 **Fifth Mirror:**

 **Castling**

 _A simultaneous move where the king and the bishop move past each other, usually for the purpose of protecting the king_

The future was malleable. Thawne knew this. And Gideon's knowledge of its path from that fateful night Nora had died to the present second shifted from day to day, hour to hour, moment to moment as Barry lived a life he would not otherwise have lived. Such shifts were, almost without exception, infinitesimal and their affects were null. Where they _had_ created a deviation, Wells had corrected it so easily, armed as he was with foreknowledge, that he almost desired something more challenging.

Almost.

He knew to be careful what one wished for.

But it seemed fate had heard him anyway and chose to spite him.

Wells had gone to bed on one future and woke to another. He demanded Gideon check her files again and again for something, _anything_ , that happened that night that would explain the complete disappearance of Barry Allen and the Flash from her memory banks.

Frustrated by the lack of answers, he had fast forwarded through the camera's recording Barry to view him eating dinner with his family, completing his homework, watching TV, sleeping… And then watching Joe, Iris, Barry's teachers, friends…

Nothing.

It gave him nothing; it merely wasted his time and with every passing second the damage could become irreversible.

He had sat for a long moment, head bowed, hands buried in his hair, fear and frustration clawing at his heart but through it all his mind remained clear, racing through possibilities, thinking of and discarding hypotheses with lightning speed.

Those infinitesimal, seemingly innocuous shifts _must_ have caused this. Somewhere, last night, one of those tiny, _tiny_ changes had altered something else, which in turn had changed another bigger thing, and it had snowballed into Barry's path and whatever it was went unrecorded in history and yet it had destroyed everything.

Was it too late?

Had it happened yet? Locked and sealed in time for eternity? Or was the snowball still rolling, still gathering pace on its way to Barry's destiny? And if it was, could Wells stop it? Did he risk more in stopping it than he would in effecting damage limitation after it had happen?

Finally in desperation, he got in his car and drove to Barry's high school. If he had to shadow the boy all day, he would. The decision to intervene, or not, would have to be made once he knew what he was facing.

Time passed, Wells watched.

Barry's life was so…small. It had long disappointed him, that such a great man, who had accomplished so much, who had been so revered, had begun so colourlessly.

The boy sat in lessons, walked between classes, ate the lunch Joe had made him while sitting under a tree with two boys from his science club, was 'accidently' knocked off his feet by Tony Woodward in the corridor, helped up by one of the school's quarterbacks, Josh Hagan, who Barry had tutored through his last physics test, shivered on the playing field under a black clouded sky and it was all so…boring.

If there _had_ been a change, Wells mused with something like amusement curling its way spitefully around his thoughts; it was that Barry's world had reached such toxic levels of dreariness that it had merely swallowed him up.

But more probably, the change had yet to happen, which meant the shifts were still gathering pace, were not set in stone.

The school day ended. Barry arrived at the front of the school in time to see the bus drive away without him – a common occurrence, the boy missed it more often than he caught it – but rather than begin the walk home, he stopped, turned when someone called his name.

Josh Hagan waved him over to his car and Wells watched as Barry grinned and hurried to get in. The kid drove surprisingly sensibly and it was easy for Wells to tail them to Barry's house, where he got out, leaned down to thank Josh and, after a brief conversation, accept a piece of paper and look at what was written there.

Wells frowned.

Words.

Edward Bulwer-Lytton was right. The pen was mightier than the sword.

Barry went into the house, Josh drove off and without hesitation, Wells followed the car. Barry's actions would be recorded by Gideon, Josh's were unknown.

But the boy only went to a store, picked up some pasta and some milk, went home and his life followed the same basic, dull, routine that Barry's did: homework, dinner, bed.

The words, which Wells learned via Gideon's cameras, was only a number 1105 and a time 8pm, too vague to provide any help and he cursed his own oversight in not placing surveillance devices in Josh's car.

Wednesday followed the same grey pattern, as did Thursday; Friday was marked different only by virtue of a bust up with Joe over visiting Henry and the monotony coupled with the stark unchanging _nothingness_ of Barry's future grated against Wells' nerves.

The tension between Barry and his foster father continued the following day, as Joe remained firm in his decision despite the boy's urgent reasoning giving way to teenaged passive aggressive pleading that Wells enjoyed watching and finally to anger as Barry became aware that the clock was now against him and there would be no visiting hours left.

At 4pm, Joe picked up his car keys to go to work and Barry, who had previously been ignoring Joe, asked to be dropped off at the library on the way; he had some research to do for a geography project – a lie, Wells knew, because he had watched Barry so closely these last few days that he knew every single piece of homework set and that definitely wasn't one of them.

"All right," Joe agreed, "but if I hear – and you know I will – that you went up to Iron Heights you're grounded until Christmas, is that clear?"

The boy nodded.

"And I expect you back here no later than 9:30."

"I was going to go to Josh's afterwards. He's got a paper coming up and he asked me to go through the calculations with him."

Joe frowned. "11." He conceded, "and when I call here at 11:30, I expect you to answer the phone and if Iris tells me you're in the shower, I'm just going to assume she's covering and ground both of you."

The exact times amused Wells. They probably both knew that Joe would give Barry at least an extra half an hour before calling, because the boy was a terrible at deadlines.

Wells left the comfort of Gideon's camera's and drove through pelting rain to intercept Joe. He caught up just as Joe stopped in front of the library.

Wells parked and got out to follow Barry into Central City Community Library where the boy genuinely did get some geography books off the shelf, take them to a table and begin making notes.

A full hour and a half passed, in which Wells began to wonder if his own and Joe's suspicions about Barry's motives in coming here were completely unfounded, and then Barry received a text message that made him grin, hurriedly pack up his notes and run for the door.

Wells quickly followed and got outside just in time to see Barry, holding his jacket over his head as an umbrella, get in Josh's car. He cursed to himself and ran to his own car but by the time he had pulled out into traffic, Josh's car was nowhere in sight.

888

1105 52nd Street was a warehouse in the docks area, used as storage for containers awaiting shipping. It was currently glammed up with strobe lights and flashing neon's and foil streamers, packed probably beyond its capacity with intoxicated teens and its walls almost visibly vibrated with the deep bass pounding coming from rows of speakers.

Somewhere in here was Barry Allen.

Gideon had found Josh's car on traffic cameras, lost it before Wells could get there, found it again, driving stupidly fast on the wet, slick roads, and this time Wells had managed to trail Josh as he picked up other members of his team – Mikey, the fullback, Keith, the running back, who Barry had also tutored, and Paul, whose position on the team was probably best described as mascot - and they had come here.

Wells had spent some time surveying the place before going inside. There was no effort made to stop the flow of people and Wells merely followed them in unhindered.

The noise and smoke and vivid, flashing lights hit him almost as a physical thing as soon as he got inside. He couldn't imagine that Barry was really enjoying this but he was learning that teenagers made rash choices on the back of anger and frustration, particularly at their authority figures, and that Barry, for all his intellect, wasn't that different.

If he was punishing Joe by coming here, he had at least chosen well. This was the kind of illegal dive that Joe would burst a blood vessel over if he knew his kid was part of it.

From the gangway high up in the rafters, Wells could see Barry laughing and gulping his way through whatever beverage given him, not just by the 'friends' he had come with, but by the rest of the football team who were either _very_ grateful for Barry's tutoring or very interested in seeing the nerdy kid completely hammered.

Such a skinny kid couldn't really be expected to hold their liquor and it wasn't long before the boy was wobbling on his feet much to the amusement of the team. But once Barry had leant against one of the lighting rigs and vomited spectacularly over it, frying its systems so that the neons cut out, most of the team moved off now that entertainment value was gone, leaving only Josh, Keith and a girl with Barry.

"Dude, you better step away from that," Josh said and tugged Barry away from the fritzing rig, "you'll get an electric shock or something."

The movement clearly aggravated Barry's stomach and he vomited again. His companions all jumped back out of any splash zone with loud expressions of disgust.

"You are such a lightweight, Baz," Keith told him as he pulled Barry's arm over his shoulders. "You need to get some air."

Josh moved to take Barry's other side.

"No worries," Keith said, "I got this."

Josh shook his head and slipped his arms around Barry to better support him. "It's kinda my fault he's like this."

There was, Wells thought, no 'kind of' about it. Josh's motives for inviting Barry here seemed genuine – a little social SOS to the nerdy kid – but the rest of the football team clearly weren't so altruistic and having had their fun, they cared nothing for the fact that the boy was now so incapacitated that he could barely stand.

Josh and Keith bundled Barry through the masses, shoving and pushing to make a path. Wells followed them with his eyes and then cursed when he realised they were not heading for the exit, but instead took a shorter route outside: the fire door at the side of the building.

Wells ran for the stairs, dodging around canoddling teens, and shoving aside anyone obstructing the gangway.

Halfway down the steps, he saw over the heads of the masses stretched between them that the girl was holding the fire door open but tugging on Josh's arm. Her head and mouth were moving in a clear plea to abandon the drunk and get back to partying.

Josh looked reluctant at first, but didn't take much persuading by the girl to follow her back inside the warehouse.

Wells didn't hear the door bang close over the pounding music, but felt it run through him as if he did.

Wells weighed his options: push his way through the crowd and go outside into the alley to keep an eye on Barry and risk being seen and even challenged over his interest, or go back to the gangway and use one of the windows to observe what was happening below.

The latter option was quicker and easier – it would take at least 5 minutes to shove his way through the packed swarm of dancing teens – and less risky so Wells ran back up the stairs and along the gangway to the opposite wall of the building. There were a number of large, grimy windows that overlooked the door that Barry had disappeared through.

Wells found one with a decent view of the fire door, which let out into a narrow alleyway that ran between this warehouse and the one next to it. Barry was leaning against the wall, retching badly but now only able to vomit up thin bile. Keith was with him, rubbing his back and clearly murmuring comforting words at him.

Wells took out his listening device and pressed it against the glass. It took a long moment of adjusting the frequency before it filtered out the music and picked up Barry and Keith's voices.

"…just breathe, OK…you're good…" Keith was telling him, as he helped Barry to straighten up and rest his back against the wall. "Man, you are such a lightweight."

"Sssoo…rry," Barry slurred and swiped awkwardly at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Keith wrinkled his nose. "That's not helping," he told him, "here." And he took the edge of Barry's shirt and lifted it to clean around Barry's mouth and chin. "There." He said once he was finished and he took Barry's chin in his hand and admired his own handiwork, smiling. "Gorgeous again."

"Doubt…" The boy's lips moved slowly, enunciating carefully, "…titt."

"Yeah…" Keith told him, "you are." The hand on Barry's chin moved to cup his cheek. "Cutest guy in school."

Barry blinked drunkenly at him, swallowed sickly as if fighting off the urge to vomit again and turned away to bend over again. His hand came up to hold his belly but he didn't retch.

"It's OK, just breathe. " Keith told him as he helped him to get upright again, "it's over."

Keith's hand came out to rest on Barry's side as the boy laid his head back against the bricks. Keith watched him for long moments before his thumb began stroking against Barry's ribs.

"How'd…y'know?"

"Been there, done that." He moved closer to Barry. "Man, are you are gonna be feeling it tomorrow."

"Feelin'…ittt now."

Keith chuckled. "Trust me, this is easy bit."

"Easy?"

Another laugh. "Yeah."

Barry snorted too, a kind of giggle, which immediately had him biting his lip sickly.

"It's OK," Keith assured him as his thumb continued to move, to work its way through the gap between the buttons on Barry's shirt to stroke against bare skin. "You're OK. Look at me."

Barry met his eyes blearily.

"See, you're all good, all better."

The boy closed his eyes, soothed by the words and by the touch and the tension in his shoulders relaxed.

"Hey, hey," Keith's other hand cupped Barry's cheek, "don't go falling asleep on me."

Barry opened his eyes, licked his lips and maybe somewhere in his alcohol addled brain he realised that Keith was standing too close, too intimately, because he flinched back from the touches and stumbled away.

Keith caught him easily, "hey, where ya going?"

"In..ssside."

"Too loud, too crowded," Keith kept his hands either side of Barry and manoeuvred him up against the wall. "Can't talk in there." He caught Barry's eyes. "And I love talking to you, Barry."

"I dunt…"

"All those tutor sessions… I could see you looking at me and I knew…I _know_ that you know I love talking to you." He shook his head, "but I never thought you'd…but tonight…tonight I saw, I can see Barry-"

Barry made a pathetic attempt to free himself. "M'not…"

Keith cupped his face in his hands, "don't go all innocent on me," Keith told him. "I know what you want now." One hand slid down Barry's neck, ran over his chest and dipped lower still. "What you were asking me when you looked at me all those times. And I can give it to you, Barry." The boy's feeble struggle was easily stopped as Keith pinned him against the wall. "You just need to let go."


	6. Fifth Mirror: Castling (Part Two)

Wells swore loudly and ran, pushing and shoving his way through the people on the gangway and the stairs. On the ground, the crowds were even thicker and wading through the press of bodies, as his heart clamoured in his chest in a way it had not done in so very long, was like being caught in treacle.

 _This_ was the change in Barry's destiny – a small alteration that had created this party and put Barry here, put Keith here – and Wells could see that future now: Barry had left this party, broken and ashamed, no doubt blaming himself for coming here, for getting drunk, for being so incapacitated that he couldn't stop Keith. Of course there were no records; Barry had probably never told anyone. Too ashamed to admit to Joe what had happened to him, he had buried it as best he could… No wonder his life had faded into nothing. Thawne had thought the murder of the boy's mother would damage him when he thrust the knife into her heart, but this… _this_ was an exquisite torture that could maim a person's very soul.

Perhaps his desire for vengeance had a limit after all, for the thought did not fill him with satisfaction at the suffering of the man he hated. Instead the realisation left only disgust and pity.

It was taking too long to push his way through the crowds and in desperation; he pulled out his phone and dialled 911. As soon as the line picked up, he screamed the address and then the name _Joe West_ at the operator.

Then he went back to shoving, yelling at the kids to get out of his way. He could see the fire door, over their heads, just 30 feet away, obstructed by Josh and the girl, who were using the small free space to make out. It enraged him that they were so close to Barry and were oblivious to what was happening to him.

It took two whole minutes to cross what should have taken no more than two seconds. Too much time…

Pushing his way out of the crowd of dancers, Wells shoved Josh and his girl aside, knocking them both to the ground, before banging down on the release bar and throwing the fire door wide open.

Cold fresh air rushed in on him. Rain had begun to fall again in the last few minutes and the heavy curtain of droplets obscured Wells' view. But he saw enough.

Keith had Barry pinned to the wall, his jeans and shirt unbuttoned, and Wells caught a fleeting glimpse of fear in the boy's eyes as his uncoordinated struggles made no impact.

Wells grabbed the back of Keith's neck and pulled him off of Barry with so much force that the kid stumbled back and slammed into the opposite wall. Keith stared at Wells in shock that quickly gave way to anger at being interrupted. It felt good when his fist crunched into Keith's jaw, wiping that look off his face. And it would have gone on to feel even better if hands hadn't pulled him off of Keith and drag him back.

"Let him go, you psycho!" It was Josh.

Wells shook off Josh's grip. "I was just teaching your friend some manners." He walked up to Keith and looked in in the eyes. "For future reference; no means no."

"What?" Josh looked first between Wells and Josh and then at Barry, who had tumbled to the ground now there was no one holding him upright.

Keith wiped blood from his mouth. "He wasn't saying no."

"He wasn't _capable_ of saying no. He's not capable of saying yes." Wells stared at kid, a boy who was merely dust in Eobard's time. "Or maybe you like it that way."

Josh looked troubled, particularly as Barry folded his arms around his legs and did not look up at anyone. He was clearly shaking.

"Keith?"

"Dude's a complete asshole," Keith protested, "you gonna listen to him?"

A long second of silence passed.

"Barry?" Josh knelt down beside his friend. Wells watched. The kid might need tutoring but he wasn't stupid and there really wasn't any misreading the way Barry's clothes were undone, what had caused his shirt to slip off his shoulder to leave the skin bare.

"We were just fooling around." Keith said. "No biggy. Baz was into it, Josh." He straightened up, tried to look confident facing Wells down. "Least he was, until this dick showed up."

Josh frowned, clearly torn between what his eyes (and a stranger) were telling him and the loyalty and value of friendship.

Wells looked him in the eyes. "Trust your instincts, Joshua Haynes."

The kid shot to his feet, shock written on his face, and he looked, panicked, across at Keith, whose face had gone blank with alarm. "How do you know my name?" He demanded, a lot less forcefully than he probably intended.

"That doesn't matter." Wells told him. "The only thing that does matter is the truth."

Keith made a noise of disgust. "You know what? Whatever, OK, Josh? You wanna believe some psycho, go a- _fucking_ -head." Keith sneered, stepping back and throwing his arms out, "I'm outta here."

Josh's eyes followed Keith as he stalked away. Then he knelt back down beside Barry. "Barry? You OK, dude?"

The boy hugged his knees tighter, swallowed and nodded. It was an obvious lie. But before Josh could challenge him, the sound of police sirens split the air.

"Shit… _shit_!" Josh drew breath, was clearly trying to think. "We gotta go." He went to grab Barry. "Barry, c'mon, gotta-"

Wells crossed the distance between them in an instant, fingers gripping tight to Josh's shoulder. "Leave him." He demanded.

"What the fuck!" Josh shook him off. "No!"

"You will leave him." There was steel in his words.

Josh met Wells eyes as the sirens drew ever closer and then he looked over at Barry. The harsh grate of tyres halting loudly on tarmac, of car doors banging and the yelling of " _police_!" provided urgent background to his actions. Indecision wavered on his face, weighing his loyalty to Barry against the very great risk of an arrest being the last straw that got him thrown out of school. Self-preservation quickly won and with a heartfelt, "sorry, Barry," he got up and hurried after Keith.

Alone now, Wells knelt beside Barry. The boy's head was cradled on the arms which were hugging his legs to his chest. In the dim light of the alleyway, Wells could see tracks of moisture on Barry's cheeks. (He would wonder, in future years, if his face as Barry's saviour was somehow imprinted on the boy's subconscious this night so instinctual was the trust he granted Wells.)

He should leave, he knew, now that Barry was safe and the police were so close but he didn't. This boy…this _child_ …with his pale skin marked by countless moles, with his green eyes framed by long thick lashes, with his long, lanky limbs… He would grow into a man Wells hated beyond everything…and yet staring at him, Wells felt none of it.

He wanted, more than he understood, to say: _you're safe now_.

But inside the warehouse, the music cut out to be replaced by the equally loud shouts of over a thousand angry teens protesting, protests that were in turn drowned out the police loudspeakers ordering everyone out of the building. It would not be long before one of the officers spotted the open fire door and came out to investigate.

Wells retreated into the shadows further down the alley. From there he watched Barry, first be found by an officer, who immediately called a female officer on catching sight of the boy's state of mind and undone clothes. She clearly recognised the shaking kid and spoke into her radio.

And a minute or so later, Joe barged into the alleyway.

"Barry?" He called but in a tone of voice that doubted _his kid's_ presence here, until he saw the hunched figure, "BARRY!"

The boy's head rose up and his lips mouthed wordlessly as Joe pulled him into his arms. _Dad_ , Wells read.

Joe closed his eyes, kissed the top of Barry's head. "I'm here," he told him, "you're OK. I've got you. You're OK."

Wells wondered if he was trying to reassure Barry or himself.

Then he turned and walked away.

8

Back home, single malt in his hand, Wells stood before Barry Allen's supercomputer and watched.

Joe helped Barry undress and accepted, without question, the boy's insistence that he shower. His only comment was that he couldn't leave Barry alone in there in his condition, in case he fell, and sat on the closed toilet while Barry washed.

When he was finished, Joe helped him to the bed and eased him down onto it. Barry sat there, pale, watching as Joe pulled back the covers and held them up so that Barry could slide his legs under them.

"You're not yelling at me," the boy said.

"I'm not angry, Barry," the words came out on a sigh, "I probably should be, but I'm not." He tucked the sheet around Barry's legs, a largely unnecessary task for the boy had yet to lie down and any movement would undo all his work. But Wells guessed his actions were more a distraction. "I'm too scared for you for that." Joe admitted.

"I'm OK." The boy lied quickly.

"It's not just tonight, Bae." Joe shook his head. "These last six or seven months… "

Wells knew every day, knew more about them than Joe ever would because there were details that Barry's foster father had never known, _could_ never know, such as how many nights the kid had stayed awake searching reports of the impossible, the times he had cut class to follow them, how far his relationship with Becky Cooper had gone… Wells had taken the attitude, the poor choices and the anger and frustration to be normal, teenage growth and yet…

"This isn't you, Barry." Joe told him and _something_ in Wells knew him to be right. "I know how much you've been through, son, and if anyone has a reason to act out against that, it's you but…" he paused.

Barry rushed to fill the gap, "Joe, I… I'm not…"

"You've have always had this…this _light_ …about you," Joe continued, "and it's filled this house from the moment you arrived and I have been watching that get dimmer and dimmer these last few months…but I never doubted you'd find your back because I know you, Barry, I know the good person that you are and that is stronger than any darkness your life can throw at you. I thought, _give the kid some space, let him work through this_." He looked the boy in the eyes. "I can't do that anymore."

Barry lowered his head.

"You have to let go of whatever you're holding inside and move on."

A tear rolled down Barry's cheek and Joe immediately pulled him against his chest, held him in a tight hug. After a long moment, he let go and told Barry gently to lie down and settled the pillow under his head before tucking the sheet up to his chin.

The boy looked up at him. "I'm sorry, Joe."

"We'll…" Joe brushed a hand against Barry's still damp hair, "we'll talk about this tomorrow. But you are grounded until you're 25, you realise that."

"Yeah."

Joe smiled sadly and bent to kiss the top of his head before reaching to turn off the bedside lamp.

"Leave it on." Barry asked. "Please."

"It's OK, Bae." He told him as the bedroom was cloaked in darkness. "I'm going to sit with you until you fall asleep."

Wells took a sip of scotch, swallowed and asked, "Gideon show me the future."

The familiar page came up, whole and perfect, as the day it was created, so many years from now.

 _Flash Missing:_

 _Vanishes in Crisis_

And Wells smiled.


	7. Sixth Mirror: Endgame

Sorry this last chapter took a while to post - a LONG while, over a year! - but hopefully you'll enjoy it anyway.

* * *

"… _And truth be told, I feel…anticipation for that moment, not just because it means I can finally go home but because…over these years, I've come to…like him, admire him…_ "

 **Sixth Mirror:**

 **Endgame**

 _The stage of the game where few pieces are left in play_

"…I think that might be the biggest irony of all."

It amused Wells, over the years, to come here, to stand at Nora Allen's grave and tell her about her son. He had no belief in an afterlife and he held no delusions that his words met with anything but empty air. And yet it still granted him some satisfaction that was missing in his log reports to Gideon.

Perhaps it was because Barry himself had never set foot here. Afraid, Wells had long ago decided, _not_ of the grief but of moving past it, moving on, leaving behind all he had left of his mother.

Joe came here, every Monday on his way home from work, and laid flowers on Barry's behalf. He would linger, sometimes for more than an hour, rain or shine, to tell Nora about her son.

But Joe would never know enough, not the small details that only Barry knew, that only he could share…

…That Wells too could share, as he snooped and spied on every tiny moment. And perhaps, in truth, _that_ was why he came here; to do what Barry could not, to _face_ what Barry could not and feel – no, _relish_ \- the triumph over him for it.

Wells bore Nora no ill will, not even on that day when he had sliced into her heart. She was not accountable for the actions of her son and would probably have freely offered her own life for that of Barry's if she had known. She would even have thanked him for his mercy with her dying breath. He knew that.

Perhaps, deep down, he even admired that.

"And I look for traces of his future in his face, expecting to see the extraordinary and there is none. He's ordinary." He shook his head as he chuckled. "Barry Allen is ordinary."

The words fell deafly on the grave stone. But he was sure a woman like Nora Allen would defend the honour of being 'ordinary' if she could.

How little she knew.

Last night he had watched the staff at Baristas 'N Books, where Barry had worked in his last couple of years of high school, talking, planning to throw Barry a surprise goodbye party before he left for college. There had been genuine regret to lose him and Joe…

Joe sat in house sometimes, when Barry and Iris were at school, listening to silence as if inuring himself to the emptiness before it became permanent.

That was the effect of this 'ordinary' man: the barest ripple in the grand scheme of things.

"And now we enter the endgame. Before this month is out, Barry will be college and the diggers will begin excavating the land for the particle accelerator."

His watch beeped a warning. Wells turned to see Joe entering the cemetery and halting midstride at seeing an unfamiliar figure standing by Nora's grave. He knew the man was too far away to see his features clearly but this was still unfortunate. He always timed his visits to Nora's grave when Barry was either working or in class, and both the Wests were occupied, but perhaps he should have foreseen Joe's extra visit here as Barry's departure grew ever closer.

Wells ducked his head down, walked quickly away. He didn't dare to look round to see if Joe was following him.

"Excuse me." Joe called out in his best polite policeman voice, strong and loud even over the distance.

Wells walked quickly and smoothly to the exit, keeping his pace as even as he could so he wouldn't appear to be hurrying away.

"Do I know you?" There was note of suspicion in Joe's voice. "Did you know Nora Allen?"

At the line of trees sheltering the graveyard from the office blocks beyond, he took the opportunity to glance back and considered, briefly, using their cover to speed away.

But no, he could not risk Joe seeing his lightening.

And it was hardly necessary, Joe was too far behind and Wells was only a few paces away from the low wall that enclosed the cemetery and beyond it, he saw that fate, for once, was not only on his side but clearly abetting him because an unoccupied cab was approaching.

He put up his hand as he hopped over the wall. The cab stopped.

Wells opened the door, got in, gave the driver the name of a street in the city centre – a generic spot that even if traced by an overzealous Detective West would offer nothing to identify Wells with.

The cab pulled out and through the window, Wells saw Joe in the distance, watching with a frown as the cab moved away.

-oOo-

That night, after Barry and Iris had gone to bed, Joe had pulled out Nora Allen's file and sat on his sofa to go through the names and the pictures of the men she had an acquaintance with. Wells watched, as aware as Joe was, that the police file in that regard was not as comprehensive as it should have been. There was some logic to it. The police had their prime suspect, Henry Allen, and the investigating of other suspects had been slightly better than cursory.

And even if it hadn't, there was no way that Harrison Wells was in there, or that Joe had been able to get a good enough look at him to be able to identify him.

Nor was there any real danger that Joe could come to believe that Henry was innocent, or that, deep down, he _wanted_ to believe Barry's fantastical tale of a "man in lightening."

Joe was merely being the conscientious man that Wells knew him to be and following up on an anomaly that he would soon, almost certainly, put down to his own misreading the situation or dismiss as just a stranger interested in reading names on gravestones.

Over breakfast the next day, Joe handed Barry the orange juice and said, in his best 'casually' tone: "I saw your mom's friend yesterday. Couldn't remember his name," he shook his head, feigning disbelief at his slip, "getting old."

Barry said some names, all of which were in the file, and Joe shook his head. "He was tall, slim, white, black hair."

Barry took a swallow of juice, "maybe Mr Patton, my 3rd grade teacher. He lived on the same street as us and mom often spoke to him."

"No one else fitting that description?"

"No," and Barry frowned, clearly growing suspicious, "is there a problem?"

Joe shook his head, "no, it's fine." He offered Barry a reassuring smile. "Just felt bad for not saying hello."

"Where did you see him?" Iris chipped in, "that might help identify him."

Joe hesitated, clearly caught off-guard by his daughter's question. Perhaps he had anticipated Barry asking that, perhaps not, but having a second focus made his answer sound like the evasion it was. "In town."

"Town's a big place, dad," she smiled.

"On the west side," he told her, which was technically true; the cemetery was on the west side of town, "I forget which street." He quickly gulped down the rest of his coffee and stood up, "I better be going or I'll be late for work." He looked over at Barry and patted his shoulder, speaking before the boy could ask any more questions. "Mr Patton." He said, "I'll be sure to remember that and say hello next time. Can't have people thinking the West's are a rude family."

Wells watched Barry's eyes follow Joe to the door and the look on his face said this wasn't over.

-o0o-

That night, and for the following day, Barry asked for more details of this "friend" and Joe, understandably, was reluctant to reveal that he had been seen at his mother's grave . The boy was desperate to prove his father's innocence and seized on any aberration that he could with the zeal of a Rottweiler with a locked jaw and that little detail was just the sort of thing that could not only send Barry on a wild goose chase but cause him much distress at the same time.

Joe deflected admirably at first _("Look, Barr, he was just walking down Lytton Street, I saw him, couldn't remember his name and that was it. Now that's the_ _ **last**_ _time I'm gonna go through this, OK?_ ")but slowly lost patience as it became obvious that Barry wouldn't let it go. He wasn't stupid and could read in Joe's behaviour that something was being held back from him.

The boy even went so far as to talk to Joe's partner, Fred Chyre, about Joe's movements that day and it was there that Joe's lie was laid bare.

And, Wells watched, single malt in hand, as Joe entered his house after work and stopped at the sight of Barry standing in the hallway, slight and pale and obviously angry.

"Barr?"

"I spoke to Fred. You didn't go to Lytton Street."

Joe looked incredulous, "are you checking up on me now?"

"He said you didn't even go near there."

Joe tossed his keys in the bowl by the door and took a deep breath, clearly reigning in his temper. "You have to stop this, Barry."

The boy looked desperate. "I know you're hide… " He swallowed the rest of the sentence and went with something less confrontational. "It feels like there's more."

Joe sighed deeply, looked away for a moment, then came to a decision. He laid a hand on Barry's shoulder. "He was by your mom's grave."

Barry's eyes widened.

"I didn't recognise him and…I'm a cop, I ask questions, at this point I can't turn that off, even when I probably should." He met the boy's eyes. "I didn't wanna upset you, Barr, I'm sorry."

"You need to find him, Joe!" Barry said urgently. "He could be the m-"

Joe immediately stopped him. "He's not." He said but stopped short of saying _he can't be._ "I looked into it, but…"

The boy turned away, hiding the bitter disappointment and sorrow on his face from his foster father.

"…Barr, he was probably just some guy taking a walk, stopped to look at the gravestone."

-o0o-

Over the next 2 days, Wells watched, via Gideon's cameras, as Barry tied himself in emotional knots trying to see any link between the "lightning man" and this mysterious stranger with the tiny scraps of information Joe had shared. It was most entertaining and the pain he could see in Barry eyes… so satisfying. And perhaps the most delightful aspect was that Barry had no idea just how close he was to the truth. So very, very close and so… _amusingly_ far…

Lightening was such a part of Barry Allen, even if he did not know it yet, that Wells found it only right that the air was filled with the static of an approaching storm as he watched the boy on Gideon's monitors finally put away his investigation notes and walk out of the house. A signal that Barry had finally accepted that, for this lead at least, he had come to a dead end and while he would carefully preserve all his work so far, and probably re-read it again in a few months, he would waste no more energy on it right now.

The boy walked the streets as the skies darkened both with the encroaching night and with the heavy rainclouds, not flinching as the heavens opened. He simply pulled up his hoodie and kept on walking.

Wells guessed – knew – where the boy's feet would take him, probably long before Barry did and, warmed by the satisfaction of watching his suffering, gave into to the compulsion to get there first and enjoy the moment first hand.

Wells parked his car some way off from the cemetery gates and walked through the rain to an overhang of a building, which shielded him from the rain as well as cloaked him in darkness.

It was only a few minutes later that Barry came into sight, walking on the pavement opposite the graveyard. He stopped, barely six feet away from Wells, and bowed his head, eyes falling to the asphalt beneath his feet as if he couldn't even bare to _look_ at the gates across the street.

Wells could not really see the boy's face from this angle, which was a little behind him, certainly well out of Barry's line of sight, although Wells had determined to remain absolutely still just in case. But he could see the jut of his nose, the curve of his cheeks, which were wet, but perhaps that was just the rain, pelting down relentlessly.

Finally, Barry raised his head and stared at the cemetery gates. "Who were you?" He asked.

All these years and Wells had never spoken to the boy, all those chances he had not taken…

Lightning flashed abruptly.

And as the thunder rumbled, Wells replied, "your future," but the words were lost to the storm.

Barry drew a breath, "just some guy taking a walk…" he murmured to himself before bowing his head to driving rain and walking on passed the cemetery.

Wells watched him go for long moments before looking over at the cemetery gates. Perhaps it was the cold and the damp leeching the warmth from his bones that made him turn away, because what other reason could there be to deny himself the chance to gloat over Nora's grave?


End file.
